Winter Winds
by Oora
Summary: It's somewhere between a father and a son..


\Win"ter\, n.  
_1: the season of which the sun shines most obliquely upon any region; usually the coldest of the year.  
2: period of decay, old age, or the like; a section of time often characterized by misery, barrenness, or death._

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**Winter Winds**

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"Papa." The word slipped out.

Too much silence, the near-whisper hung in the air, foreign and unwelcome, injecting like poison the more it echoed. So strange that one simple word, one soft sound could stop a heart like this. So strange indeed.

Mirai Trunks sat on the edge of the soft, leather couch, facing away from his father. He didn't seem to notice that he had spoken, and whatever his thoughts were, they were too enchanting to pull himself away to the fact that his father was there and watching him.

Vegeta paused in the doorway from the kitchen and stared. He was waiting. Waiting for an explanation, an answer, a … a confirmation. He waited.

But nothing happened.

Mirai just continued to stare at the wall in front of him, his back hunched over too far and his hands on his knees. He was watching the wood as if were an oracle's eyes, reading the world and displaying it in whispered proverbs.

Time passed and snow continued to fall outside the window, curtains pulled slightly apart by the wind of sudden movement. It must have been Bulma, racing up from her lab to grab a cup of coffee before she lost her train of thought and her lab deserted her in her moment of scientific discovery.

It was quite white outside. Even with the falling sun pulling a train of darkness behind it, the ground seemed to shimmer with an ethereal glow. A wind came breezed through the carpet of ice and pure flakes, lifting them to the sky and beyond, even blowing a slight breeze through the house to rattle the curtains.

Vegeta paused his scrutiny of his future son and watched the window. The wind came stronger, dancing, an exotically cold beauty. There would be a blizzard.

Mirai did not move, and it did not seem as if he would for quite some time.

Bulma's hand-crafted ivory clock chimed behind them. The Son's would come for dinner tonight, though Vegeta had protested his opinion quite vibrantly. Which did nothing to dissuade Bulma. She invited them, they were coming, and Vegeta would be there. End of discussion.

Vegeta had been on his way to his room to shower. He had just left the gravity-room but a few moments ago, stopping at the kitchen to warm up from the cold and fill his stomach so he could make a hasty retreat when Kakorrot and his demon spawn came.

Though he would not admit to anyone that the snow did get to him. It was beginning to pile up outside, nearing two feet in height and making it quite hard on travel. That is, unless you possessed the miracle of _flight_.

Vegeta could easily make a sound, a cough, any noise, and break his son's train of thought. Grab the boy's attention and bear _his_ scrutiny. Or he could just as easily turn and leave. Walk away and head to the shower that was looking more and more intoxicating the longer he watched this snow. Pretend the word spoken was merely a breath of the wind.

Perhaps it was.

Perhaps he _had _been hearing things, imagined such an informal sound coming from a son who was nothing but excessively polite. Perhaps he had trained too much and was making much out of something insignificant.

Perhaps.

Maybe.

And then again.

Mirai tilted his head, his thoughts caught on something that would not let go. His mind had been snagged by something unseen and he could not discern it.

A moment more and he sat up, his back popping from disuse. He must have been there for quite a time, concentrating on things swimming about in his mind and trying to defuse them into coherency.

Mirai did not look to the kitchen, and did not acknowledge Vegeta's presence. He was giving him an excuse. A ticket for escaping and pretending the moment never happened. That his father had never caught him in this vulnerability.

So the boy wanted to be alone.

Vegeta stayed. He moved with clear intent across the plush carpet. His feet sinking in with each step: trapping him, holding him. It was not an easy path.

Mirai bowed his head for a moment conceding to the fact that his father would not leave him be. The other side of the couch was pulled down when Vegeta sat, and Mirai finally broke the silence.

"Father." A correction, a reaffirmation. He was trying to deny futilely that he had indeed spoken before.

Vegeta grunted in response, and in his guttural sound came more voice and meaning any word. He waited for his son to continue.

Mirai opened his mouth to speak, then something hit him and he turned to examine Vegeta. Why was he here? What reason did he have to pay rapt attention to his son now, of all times, if this even was a time?

Vegeta tolerated the scrutiny and spoke. Apparently something had hit him too and what ever it was, he felt the need to remove the offending thought from his mind.

"What?"

Moments more passed, unnoticed. Each member of the great Sayian race stared through the other, both trying to outweigh his opponent. Vegeta, unfortunately, was a master at glaring.

Finally Mirai admitted defeat. He was not going to get out of this without giving something away. And in this case, trifles would not do.

Mirai sighed and spoke, the words removing themselves harshly from his throat. He did not wish to bring this part of his being to the surface. He was not used to revealing himself - most certainly not to his _father_.

"I miss home."

Mirai paused, gathering his breath and his courage to say whatever had been tormenting his mind. Vegeta just watched him silently, wondering himself why he sat down. Maybe it was for the simple reason that he did not want to secede his son's challenge.

Bulma's clock ticked loudly behind them, counting away the seconds, the minutes of their lives. The living room was dark now, the only light coming from a dusty lamp sitting in a corner by the large and obviously expensive television set. An old and forgotten game set sat next to the television coated in layers of dust.

The corners of the living room were hidden in shadows, and that wind that rattled the curtains was already long gone, though the cold it brought remained.

The snow continued to fall.

Vegeta realized with a start that the boy had never really given much of himself away. They knew that Gohan and Bulma were the only survivors left with Trunks after the andriods' attacks, though they did not last long. Mirai Trunks' voice seemed to have a habit of disappearing into the background.

_"I miss home."_ The words echoed suddenly in Vegeta's mind, and he knew suddenly what he had missed. _The boy does not see this as his home._ And why should he, for Vegeta of all people would know well just how hard it was to leave a life of darkness and rest silently in the light.

The little lamp reflected brightness throughout the room and a few slivers of ice hung from the nearby window in ill-formed drops.

Mirai sighed and continued, finishing his last debate and repeating his confirmation.

"I miss my _home_." He hesitated for a moment, then continued with his resolution.

"It's not that it is not nice here, Father. I mean that, I know Bulma tries to make sure everyone is happy and everything, but … but it is just not home."

He was trying to apologize. Vegeta did not speak in words the verbal would understand, moving his body only minimually enough to show a listening. He would not speak.

Mirai continued, glancing once more at his father, as if now afraid of offending him.

"Things were different after you died. Ma—_Mother_ was a lot calmer and quieter. She spent a lot of time in her lab, though it wasn't until later that she told me why.

"When I was about eleven or so, the andriods were attacking and Gohan and I were close by. We tried to stop every attack. I was determined.

"But Gohan knocked me out to go die in the rain."

Mirai held his words and soothed his train of thought. He obviously blamed himself for his mentor's death, but refused to let out his self-pity in those extremes in front of his father.

He looked to his father, sitting across from him on the widely comfortable black leather couch, imobile. Vegeta was offering no resistance or encouragement.

The clock chimed nine o'clock behind them, though it didn't break the standoff. The Son's would be coming at nine thirty.

They had the house to themselves. No one would interrupt them; which may or may not have been a good thing.

The boy from the alternate future of death continued once again.

"It wasn't as nice there.." He stopped to watch the snow wander outside the window.

"Winter certainly never was white." This statement hit Vegeta slightly, and he tried to think why.

"And no river was pure water." He put his head down at this. "All the rivers ran red. And the ground was black, and every tree was a burnt piece of wood lost in the ground.

"When it rained, human ash fell, and nothing could ever erase the smell of death from our homes.

"But it was home."

_And familiar,_ they both added silently.


End file.
